Voyeur
by Katherine Swift
Summary: Dylan has a midnight admirer...


Title: Voyeur

Author: Kate Swift

E-Mail: ExigentVision@aol.com

Pairing: Thin Man/Dylan

Spoilers: First Charlie's Angels Movie

Summery: Dylan has a midnight admirer…

Date Published: 9/04/03

He's perched like some dark avian on the roof of her apartment, his profile stark against the bone-colored moon that rises steadily in the distance. The smell of piss and wet gravel in the alley below climbs the façade of the building to invade his nostrils with a pungent stench, yet his aquiline face remains impassive. He can afford to be patient.

Eventually his fingertips skitter like claws to the ledge, the rest of his narrow frame slithering forward into the ever-welcoming embrace of the shadows. He can see her from here. On other nights he would wait hours before allowing himself to creep forward, this twisted voyeur. He liked the idea of delaying his pleasure; it made the first vision of her all the more sensual. But not tonight. A lashing rain had descended on the city as twilight began to swell, whirling cesspools around the heels of high society. The departing clouds had left the atmosphere thick with ozone -- an intoxicating fog that seemed to crush the breath from his lungs.

He had to walk.

Had to see her.

He had found herself standing on the front sidewalk of her apartment. Scaling the fire escape with the silent grace of a cat, he crept along the rooftop and nestled himself between the ledge and the stairwell. He had knelt, ensconced in a valley of shadow, for only a moment or two before he rose and stepped forward. He could see the light burning in her bright windows; the monotonous pirouette of a floor fan as it passed back and forth, blowing the damp air around. That gaze of glacial-blue slicked over the sweep-backed furniture that dotted her domicile; the Bob Marley posters and Grateful Dead album-covers. He savored these images as he would a fine wine -- one that precedes the main course. His peripheral vision was captured by a procession of billowing steam as it poured from the open door of her bathroom. A moment later Dylan herself emerged, Peruvian-pale skin swaddled in a towel. Her copper hair was wet, and coiled like dark serpents against the curve of her shoulders. The veils of his eyelids slid closed and in the opaque haze of their darkness he could see himself drawing his fingertips along her throat, pausing only when he reached the nape of her neck. _Twist. Tug._

His hand now fishes in the pocket of his slacks, twirling a coil of titian hair around the circumference of his tapered fingers. He draws it to his mouth and feels his lips twitch as the tickling ends trace them. His nostrils flare as he sucks her fragrance in completely. He's suddenly consumed by her. His jaw slackens as he lets a tremor of pleasure soak through his body. Like rainwater. Purifying. His eyelids ascend and he pulls the burning image of her to the center of his dark pupils. In his mind he can imagine her beneath him, body slick with a sheen of sweat, cherry lips stretched into an 'o' of agony and ecstasy as he tears yards and yards of hair from her scalp. She's moaning his name over and over again, but no sound escapes her throat. He has no name. At least, no name that he _recognizes_.

He loses sight of her for a moment when she ducks into her bedroom. His brow furrows in impatience. Once he sees her, he does not like to lose her. But she emerges a moment later, lithe body clad in a pair of sweatpants and a Whitesnake tee-shirt. Her fine-boned hands are pulling a brush through her hair, fingers picking at worrisome tangles. He does not dare blink during this ritual. His eyes are glued to the hairbrush as it glides through that titian curtain, a few unfortunate strands remaining locked between the bristles. When she is satisfied she tips her head back, threading her fingers through her hair and shaking the loose curls so that they frame her heart-shaped face. He feels a surge of desire hit him like a fist, and he creeps backward into the purple shadows. The ledge of the building now obscures his vision, but he has seen what he needed to see. The thick air has begun to retreat to the west, and a cool breeze ushers in the sweet scent of lavender from someone's window garden.

His confident step echoes off the wet pavement as he begins the long stroll back to his apartment, his presence no more than a shadow on the wall.


End file.
